The Sporting Life
by HelenaHermione
Summary: Dr. John Watson's life was shattered and broken after Afghanistan, by more than just a bullet. Enter Sherlock Holmes to the rescue. Rated T for potential, future Johnlock, slight AU.
1. Shooting Game

So I'm relatively new to writing Sherlock fanfiction...I tried to do some texting between Sherlock and Ms. Hudson awhile ago, but that didn't pan out much. (Maybe I should consider texting between other characters. Hmm.) Anyway, this is mostly a John Watson story that is slightly AU to Sherlock, although it might veer into canon now and then from Watson's perspective. I might add in some Sherlock, and perhaps other, perspectives later on, but for the most part, it's all John. I'll note if it's anyone else.

* * *

1. Shooting Game

When I was a kid, my father used to take Harry and me on fishing and shooting trips in the Scottish countryside, saying that he wanted to instill in us a sense of sportsmanship, camaraderie, and strength through such difficult tasks. My sister and I rolled our eyes at that and protested the need, even though he insisted that fishing and shooting were useful survival skills to learn. Even though this was the 20th century, almost the 21st, (I never could imagine what the 21st century was going to be like) I said at one point, and everything we ate came from the store? It wasn't as if we would ever be left in the forest or wilderness on our own and forced to fend for ourselves. (Although that did happen to me once, much later in life, and shooting and fishing weren't really on the cards then, no gun or pole and too much danger. I scavenged plants.) My father told Harry and me to button our lips at this point, we were going fishing and shooting whether we liked it or not!

Harry took to fishing well enough as she was able to catch some when I was barely able to get a nibble, but it wasn't her favorite activity in the world. Pretty boring, just sitting in the boat for hours on end, waiting for something to happen. She was always antsy, wanting to get out of the boat and back to shore, almost like Sherlock now that I think about it, while I could sit for hours on end, comfortable and relaxed in the tranquil environment. I wanted nothing to ever happen to me then. Those were the days when nothing troubled me and I didn't feel the urge to escape and find an adventure of my own.

I wish I could go back to those days sometimes, when the urge wasn't so strong and I could fully relax, but those days are gone and over with now. I'm stuck in this adventuresome life and part of me loves it, part of me hates it, but most of all I have gotten used to it. I can't change who I am in that regard.

Anyway, Harry point-out refused to handle the gun when we went shooting, saying that it was a morally wrong and perverse activity and I don't blame her one bit. I would have refused as well if I could get away with it, but my father insisted that one of us should at least learn how to shoot. He didn't insist on Harry learning, though, he chose me. I suppose he thought that I was better able to handle it or wouldn't protest so much and scare off game. I mostly went alone with our father then while Harry stayed with the car or at the camp site. We had a dog with us to sniff out game birds and fetch back their bodies, but mostly it was up to us.

My father taught me how to aim and shoot the shotgun, gently pulling back and easing my breath beforehand, even to the point of trying to calculate how fast the bird was going and what its trajectory might be. The dog flushed out most of the birds, although I was occasionally sent out if the dog was too unruly.

I would be attentive to my task, ready to beat about with a stick as I searched for any sign of restive movement in the brush with my ears pealed for any cooing or crackling noise. Occasionally, I would bypass them, hoping to avoid shooting them, but eventually I had to flush them out or else the dog would be unleashed and my father would scold me and even knock me on the head for not paying attention or ignoring the prey. Whenever I did have to rouse the birds, I privately urged them to flee and fly far away before the gun could be aimed and fired, the shot ringing out as the bullet found its mark.

I would have to stand to the side, though, or risk being shot at by my own father, although I mostly trusted his judgment and accuracy in aiming at the birds. I cannot recall how accurate my father was, if he shot the birds more often than not, but we usually came away with something, no matter how small it was. I was relatively good, I suppose, for a beginner, although I barely came away with anything. Harry would always glare at us when we returned to camp or to the car with our prey, but she never said anything too loudly, except to toss the cooler at us.

I suppressed my own feelings of anger, both at her, at my father, and at myself in those moments, quietly packing away the dead animals. We never ate them or at least prepared them ourselves. My father would find a local butcher who would accept them.

* * *

There was a moment, though, when I first went shooting with my father that forever sticks in my mind. My father had shot at a beautiful dove, which fell, but when we sought it out, we discovered that it was still alive. The bullet had mostly grazed by it. Yet the bird was still badly wounded with the fall having compounded its injuries and it would not fly again. It would surely die out here in the brush, with another animal coming to eat it soon. My father would have finished off the bird himself, to show it some mercy, if such mercy could be called that, but this time he insisted that I should do it to learn how.

I had practiced firing the shotgun at bottles, cans, and even clay pigeons, but I had never really shot a real, living bird before. I wasn't ready. I had imagined and hoped I could manage it, just for the sake of pleasing and proving to my father that I had what it took to be a man, but right then I couldn't do it. My hand and heart trembled and faltered in that moment, seeing the dove twitching and cooing helplessly as it bled out and I could not do it. I could not kill the creature, even if it was an act of mercy.

My father took the shotgun away from me after a few minutes and finished off the bird himself. He was almost angry at me for recoiling and stalling so much, although he did not hit me like he did when I refused to flush out the birds. I felt no shame in what I did, though, just anger, shock, and distress at my father's actions and for putting me in such a position. I remained in a sullen state for the rest of the day, matching Harry's moodiness and casting a cloud over the whole rest of the trip, yet it taught me an important lesson. I valued the life of (almost, now) any creature, especially one that was injured and innocent of any crime.

I decided, either in the moment or later, to devote my life to saving these creatures, to protect and treat their injuries whenever I could. In essence, I decided to become a doctor. And I started off on a hard path in life. Being a doctor isn't easy, especially for where I come from. My family is respectable, for the most part, but they weren't intellectual, or at least they didn't live in an environment that encouraged intelligence and professional excellence in a driven, hard-working field. To them, the best, most professional, intelligent, and driven line of work was football, rugby, or cricket.

I did play those sports in school, but they weren't what I wanted to excel at and base a career upon, no. I dedicated myself to science and math courses, especially biology, anatomy, and the like in preparation for a medical career, keeping my grades up, doing all of my homework and studying extra hours, and getting into advanced classes. However, I did not neglect my other courses, and even did well in literature and composition. My parents were relatively proud of my accomplishments, though they didn't overpraise me, while Harry groaned and rolled her eyes at my achievements, teasing me.

Outside of my studies, school was tolerable for the most part, although I didn't spend much time making friends, just acquaintances. I avoided hazing and bullying for the most part by remaining affable and genial whenever possible, ignoring snide remarks over my intelligence, and running and hiding during the worst hours. My father had taught me how to defend myself if need be, but I didn't feel like fighting much, saving my aggression for sports, and I certainly didn't want Harry standing up for me. However, as school was winding down, I started to worry about my chances of getting into university and pursuing a medical career, especially when my parents didn't have enough saved up for me to remain in school without a scholarship or a career to support myself with.

I looked at all of my options and weighed them, considering how much money I needed to fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor and what were the most expedient, efficient options, until finally I chose to enlist in the army. My sister was shocked.

"The army?" She asked. "You can't find a better way of earning your degree?"

"No, I can't, not if I want to become a doctor before I'm 50 or whatever," I told her. "The army is my best choice. They'll support me at university and even provide me with some education and training-"

"For the front lines." Harry said.

"It's not like we're at war, Harry." I told her. "And it's quite unlikely that we will be. I'll be fine."

How wrong I was, how very, very wrong.

* * *

The idea for this start to the story, especially the hunting scene...I was considering doing a Victorian Sherlock Holmes story from John Watson's perspective, but after awhile, I said, 'Heck with it, I might as well make it fanfiction and do it with BBC Sherlock, since I am more familiar with the modern era and such a story would require some research into the Victorian era. Besides, it's not like it would gain much attention.' So, yeah, there's that. Please read and review.


	2. Be Alive

Originally, I was thinking of calling this chapter 'The Sting', but then I decided to rename it 'Be Alive', and now I keep thinking of that Stephen Sondheim song from _Company_, 'Being Alive'. Ah, crazy. The roughest part of this story for me...handling the fact that John Watson is a thrill addict, and yet he still suffers in the midst of this thrill. Hmm, it's a conundrum and a paradox in some ways.

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2. Be Alive

Afghanistan. Never had I imagined that I would be deployed on a battlefield in one of the harshest, volatile environments in the Middle East. Avalanches, landslides, and earthquakes were the least of our problems here when we had to be wary of enemy attack and mines. When it wasn't cold high up in the mountains, where some of the terrorist groups resided, it was hot in one of its arid plains regions. In our missions, my platoon, as part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, traversed all sorts of terrain, traveling across most of the country, it seemed, or at least through its most volatile, harshest environments.

We sought out enemy cells and eliminated extremely threatening targets when we weren't supporting peace-keeping efforts or multinational attacks. It was a dangerous time in Afghanistan, those first few years of the war, with people dying every day and no one knew what was going to happen next. I missed Harry and my family and wrote to them and even called them as often as I could, though it was difficult to describe what was happening here and what I was going through. Harry understood that something was wrong with me, we were close in that regard, but I didn't even understand what the matter was.

I didn't understand until years later. The truth was I wasn't scared of anything that was happening around me. I was…thrilled sometimes to be in the heart of danger. It seems like a terrible thing to say, but I was excited and ready to face death, torture, and suffering if that meant getting involved and seeing some action. I wanted to go out there and take care of or handle any problems that happened to come my way. I wasn't reckless, I didn't endanger myself or others when that was a cardinal sin in the armed forces. I didn't actively seek danger. It just came to me, and I was ready and willing to face it.

Harry asked me once if I ever regretted my decision to join the army and honestly, I can't say that I fully regretted it. There were times when I hated what the army did to me, what it exposed about my character, but there were other times when I absolutely loved the experience, aside from the threats, and those just livened things up a bit. I lived or at least managed to survive multiple attacks there for three years, staying close to my tightly-knit group, learning everything that I could regarding fighting and shooting from my major, James Shalto, and the rest of the men in my patrol and regiment. I owe everything to them in that regard.

We were a team and friends in our own way, though we weren't exactly the most social, personable people in the world. But for myself and others, these were the closest friends we ever had up to that point when we depended on each other for survival, and needed to know that we could trust each other. I trusted them with my life, and they could count on me to be there to help them whenever they needed me. I was their doctor and friend. But one day, we were ambushed near Maiwand, northwest of Kandahar, and that changed everything for me.

* * *

"Watson! We need you over here!" The sergeant yelled over the gunfire and explosions.

"Coming!" I cried, hurrying over and bending down to examine the wounded lieutenant, bleeding profusely. "There, now, everything's going to be all right," I told him, barely more than a kid, as I staunched and treated the wound, wrapping it up tightly. He needed medical attention, though, to ensure that none of his organs were badly damaged. "Is there any way we can get him out of here?" I asked the sergeant.

"Air support won't be coming soon." The sergeant said. "We need to hole up somewhere safe."

"What about-" I started to say, but suddenly, there was a sharp sting in my shoulder, almost too close to my spine and neck above. For a moment, I thought it was just some stiffness, a sore coming on from bending down and working too much, but then when I tried to stretch it out, the pain fried my brain. I screamed and clutched at my shoulder, my mind still reeling as I felt the blood gushing out, staining my fingers and palm.

"Dr. Watson!" The sergeant said, realizing what had just happened as he leaned towards me. "Are you hurt badly? Is there an exit wound?"

"I—I-" I couldn't think, I couldn't say anything, my mind was spiraling out of control with the shock to my system. I never had imagined what getting shot would be like, or at least my mind had resisted and ignored that thought before when I was tending to my patients and trying to keep them calm and stable in the midst of treatment. I had to stay calm and stable as well in such a situation and perform my duties to the best of my abilities to save lives.

I couldn't linger too long on such a concept, even from that safe remove, when it was so tempting to linger too long and imagine all of the horrible things that could happen or one would experience in such a crisis. When it happened to me, though, I couldn't ignore it or pretend it wasn't happening to me. My eyes were red, there was nothing but blood and horror left in the world right now, and I just wanted to get away from that damn battlefield. I wanted to sleep—no! That was the worst thing that could happen right now, to lose consciousness, yet shock was bad as well.

I shook my head and after taking stock of my situation, I said, "There is definitely an exit wound, that's good. I think it's avoided major arteries, definitely some bone and tissue damage…" I grimaced. "Definitely could have been worse."

"Don't worry, Dr. Watson, we're going to get you and the lieutenant out of here." The sergeant told me, and he was good to his word on my part, although the lieutenant did not survive for long. I wish I could have done more to save him, but there was not much I could have done outside of a hospital setting.

* * *

We managed to find some cover with a couple of men carrying the lieutenant to the spot while I walked on my own without any help, just a bandage wrapped tightly round the wound. I limped then for the first time ever, yet not the last, though my leg had not been wounded. Just a side-effect of my injury when the pain was so great and the effort of resisting shock strained my whole body to the breaking point so that everything else was affected, including my mind and emotions. Yet I was not defeated.

I felt fine, I told myself, completely and utterly fine. It was impossible in some ways and troubling as well that I felt so fine, when in spite of everything that I had suffered, the hell that my platoon and I had just gone through, I could feel like everything was okay. But at least it meant that I was still alive and that was a good thing, right? Even with everything being so horrible? I wanted to live, I wanted to do everything I possibly could to make sure that I was still alive, and not done in by these terrible events when I wanted to rise above them.

I wanted to be a better person, even pushing aside all of these terrible, inappropriate feelings that I had about war and fighting when I wanted to be normal as well as better, thinking those were the same things. I wanted to get out of there, back to civilization or at least to some semblance of it at base to recover from the pain that I was feeling with this wound, yet I knew, deep in my heart, that I would miss this place still. I would miss the thrill, excitement, and terror of action when I would be removed and taken away from it all, probably sent back home eventually.

Hell, eventually, I would even miss the sting of the injury itself, possibly a reason why I continued to limp without even thinking about it, trying to experience that pain again. Air support came and we were taken out of there; I clutched the dying lieutenant's hand and told him to hold on, that we were going to make it back home. Just keep steady, keep feeling, and be alive.

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And now here I am thinking about John Watson with a moustache or some fuzz...I bet he had a moustache, or something similar to that, on the battlefield. Anyway, please read and review.


	3. Betting Man

I've changed the format slightly to go into third-person. First person was likeable and enjoyable enough in getting into character, but I am more used to third person and it is easier for me to write this way, I suppose. Surprises ahead.

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**3. Betting Man**

John ran away from the gunfire, a loud, sharp, reverberation that jerked and shook him to the core, and the bone-chilling howls of swift, bloodthirsty hounds bounding after him through the tall grass, obediently searching and sniffing him out in exchange for a treat from their masters. The hunters were coming after him to claim him as their prize and he would rather not be someone's dinner or trophy, mounted up on their wall.

He did not want death to claim him, to be caught out in the open like some witless grouse. He wanted to remain free, alive, and wild for as long as he could, to fly, able to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, even though that meant he would remain unattached to anyone, alone for the rest of his life. He was forced to run and flee from anyone who would capture and bound him when such sedation would surely kill him faster than running could.

Suddenly, an expert marksman, probably trained as a sniper, (and with the face of John's father) targeted him and fired. The aim was true and he was shattered into a million different pieces, scattered across the world, universe, and beyond. There was no way he could ever come back together again. He fell down, like a beautiful dove he had once seen and loved. A never-ending rabbit hole of voices, names, words, thoughts, feelings and places surrounded him, all of them different yet all the same, full of pain, anger, confusion, defeat and despair, his own.

He had no hope or light in this darkness, no guidance to lead him through and out of this rubble of a troubled life into a new adventure and dream he could call his own. A thrilling, daring escape was just what he needed, yet he didn't feel like he had enough energy, drive, and verve to get him out of this rut and back onto his feet. He felt trapped, alone, and broken down here, just a sliver of his former self. Yet there was something just ahead of him, he could tell, a shadow of a tall, dark person whose curly tresses wavered in the breeze and whose coat flapped behind. Was this death come to claim him at last, a demon of darkness and despair, or something else? Hope?

John shivered in anticipation and woke up burning with fever and desire, yet he was alone in his dark bedroom and spread out across the bed, no one beside him. The sheets and blanket were pushed to the bottom of the bed as he had struggled and tossed in his sleep. No one was there to cover him up and protect him. He could faintly hear the nighttime music of the city, the caterwauling of cats, people, and cars driving, passing, or running through the city, never staying still or lonely for long. They called out or honked at each other for attention, pleasure, notice or fun, trying to distract themselves from boredom, ruin, and death by staying alert and active even at this time of night. Trying to find mates and friends to keep them company.

Bright lights shone through even the dark curtain and shade drawn down over John Watson's window to keep out this reminder of better lives and existences beyond his own, so that even here in his little corner of a bedsit, John Watson was reminded of all that he never had or lost. He reached out across his bed to the empty space beside him and imagined that another person lied here next to him…he sat up, gathered himself together as best he could, and reached out for his cane. Then he stood up, got dressed and left his bedsit.

He ventured out into the night, huddled deep inside himself and hobbling, though he kept his eyes open and checked his surroundings to make sure that he wasn't being followed. He kept his revolver with him, though, just in case something went wrong. He did not notice one shadow that detached itself from a wall and followed him, though, all the way to the betting shop.

* * *

Earlier that evening, Sherlock Holmes had been rather bored with flailing at his corpse. There were only so many ways one could strike a typical corpse with a conventional weapon, and Molly Hooper had not been any help. She had offered some suggestions and remarks about which ways might be better, or how deep and wide a mark had been, which might have been helpful on other occasions, but Sherlock had gained no inspiration, patience, or sympathy with her kindness then, just more aggravation and impatience with her presence. Plus, there had been the matter of his room, which he was trying to acquire at 221B Baker Street, the perfect address at the best location in the city, but he was hitting a snag.

**Mrs. Hudson, I ensured that your husband received the death penalty. Can't you at least grant me some lenience on rent?—SH**

**I'm sorry, but not with the price you're requesting. I can't afford to shelter you at such a low offer. You're going to have pay more or find a roommate to pay the other half of your rent. The choice is yours.—Mrs. H.**

Negotiation, what a codswallop. Make me a better offer, Sherlock scoffed to himself, slapping the corpse again and again. It was the best he could afford, without going to his brother, and he certainly couldn't afford to go to his brother every single time that he was in trouble, or else he would never hear the end of it. He had already gotten an earful when Mycroft had to pull some strings to get him involved with New Scotland Yard's criminal investigations. But he certainly couldn't take on a roommate. No one wanted to stay with him for very long. Molly Hooper might want to live with Sherlock as more than just flat-mates, but even she would grow tired and bored with him eventually.

She wouldn't be able to stand him and his behavior for very long and he couldn't stand her behavior outside of the working environment, or so he assumed. Molly Hooper might be a nice person and a diligent worker, studious and willing to listen, pay attention, and help him whenever possible, but even she couldn't keep up with him at times and he would get angry at her. He didn't need 'nice', he needed an active, smart partner, one able to keep up with him, ignore pain and aggravation, and participate fully in any criminal investigation. Preferably armed when he could get into some serious danger. He certainly didn't want to upset Molly Hooper and change her for the worst, needlessly endanger her. No, he would never get a flat-mate or partner.

At that point, Sherlock had enough and quit his pointless exercise, telling Molly to close up shop and call it a night, storming out of the morgue before she could protest. He had donned his coat and took off, racing upstairs and outside the hospital doors, striding down the sidewalk and brooding to himself. It was a cool, crisp night and he turned up his collar, examining his surroundings and the people walking by him with brief, but pointless interest as he could tell with a glance that they were all rather mundane, going about their business, and up to no good in only a few instances, but even those instances were rather quaint and half-hearted. No real crime or law being broken to speak of. God, he was bored.

Sherlock took up residence near a street corner at this point, hanging back in the shadows as he longed for a cigarette to smoke, but all he had were nicotine patches. He slapped on one or two for good measure, but it wasn't the same as taking a drag, inhaling and then exhaling deeply, feeling totally relaxed and at ease for one instance of pure perfection and bliss in his life. Suddenly a man walked by, a rather small man, hobbling a bit as he leaned upon a cane for support. He seemed rather turned in on himself, not especially egregious, but rather moody and armed. Sherlock frowned to himself, noticing a bulge beneath the man's jacket similar to that of a holstered gun, and so Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall and followed after him to see what sort of mischief he might be up to.

The man went straight to a betting shop and Sherlock hung back a bit, not daring to enter the shop when he might be noticed by the stranger, but he was curious to know what he might be up to. Was he going to rob the place?

* * *

John shifted as he stared up at the board and television screens, displaying various sports and activities, the numerous teams and players involved, and the odds for or against something happening in each sport. He squinted, trying to figure out what all of these sports, figures, odds and numbers represented as the lines were starting to blur together in his mind so late at night when he felt tired and just wanted to sleep, yet he couldn't rest, not now when he had something to do and figure out. He wanted to get out. His fingers itched, longing to grab hold of his wallet and a couple hundred pound notes, slapping some down on a horse or football team to win the match, even if they might lose. He wanted some sort of stakes, a match, maybe even a challenge to call his own, even though there was nothing worthy.

For a moment, as he stood there, everything on the board and television screens seemed to change into a shooting match, images from his past in Afghanistan and in the Scottish fields, the lists of dead and dying men, the odds of them surviving or dying. He heard the gunfire echoing in his mind, the wolves and hounds were brawling. He shook his head and stumbled backwards, gasping in shock for a moment as he nearly collided with a poker machine. No, no, not here, not now, stay calm, he told himself, trying to regain control of his mind and emotional responses. Breathe, he told himself, steady heartbeat, calm down.

He quickly withdrew from the shop before he could startle the counter worker anymore, and walked down the sidewalk, not even hobbling anymore as he shook his head. He might have accidentally misfired his revolver if he wasn't careful just then. Perhaps it wasn't safe to walk around armed, he could harm himself or someone else, but he felt like he needed the extra protection. He needed to know that he could defend himself and save his life if threatened, but was his life worth saving at this moment? No, don't think about it, think about saving someone else's life if threatened. Yes, that sounded like a good idea, he could defend someone else. He stopped and inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves as he leaned on the cane a bit more, feeling the pain returning. Perhaps he should go back to the bedsit and—oh, look, a pub, his mind said to himself. Perhaps one small drink wouldn't hurt to steady his nerves and regain his senses. He wearily sighed and gave in to the impulse, wandering inside the joint for some beer. Perhaps that might soothe him enough so that he could go back to sleep and bed. He wouldn't be troubled by any more bad dreams then, he hoped.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had intently watched the stranger from outside the betting shop and immediately noticed how the man shifted, favoring one leg and then another, not even wincing in pain at times when he wasn't supporting the injured leg. Was he faking the injury? Perhaps not so intently, Sherlock mused to himself, as the slight inconsistences seemed more like slipups of an unconscious mind when consciously, he continued to lean upon the cane for support, perhaps believing that he needed it when he truly did not.

Most amusing, a psychosomatic injury there, Sherlock had not had the chance to observe one up close outside of a journal, but there was definitely something else wrong there. The man did seem to hold himself stiffly and did not maneuver very well in one of his shoulder joints—perhaps he had received a true injury of sorts in his shoulder blade, maybe a gun-related injury, hence the weapon? Hmm, Sherlock half wondered who the man was. If he could just get closer to him, under better light, perhaps he might better be able to tell just where and in what situation this man had been injured in, as it might be related to his psychosomatic injury.

Suddenly, the man started backwards and Sherlock shifted, ready to bolt into the shop if need be and try to calm the man down, if he was ready to open fire on the bookmaker and steal his money, but then after a near collision with a poker machine, the man had beat a hasty retreat out of the shop and down the street, looking shocked and embarrassed. Sherlock shook his head and followed after him. He definitely needed to keep an eye on this stranger, who seemed prone to startle easy, was armed, and might have a psychological disorder. Perhaps he was a PTSD sufferer and veteran from Afghanistan? Yes, that was a possibility, there were definitely some veterans in the area who might suffer from the condition.

At this point, part of Sherlock didn't know why he kept on going trailing after this obvious veteran suffering from PTSD or something related to that. Surely there could be no excitement or amusement here and there were other people better qualified, equipped, and dedicated enough to deal with this sort of trouble and help people. But he had dedicated himself to this affair, if only for a short while, to keep the city streets safe and he wanted to find out more about what this man was capable of doing before he abandoned his pursuit.

* * *

Pausing here for now, will write more soon, hopefully.


	4. Definitely Not Feeling Well

So recently some stuff happened to my family and I just started re-reading the original ACD Sherlock Holmes, which sort of combined into this chapter, the beginning of an altogether different AU version of both BBC and ACD. Originally when I started this story, it was going to be set in ACD's time/events, and within the first page of A Study in Scarlet, it mentioned that Watson had gotten enteric, or typhoid, fever in India after he was injured. And reading on, it mentioned the fact that Watson was still quite ill and weak when he first moved in with Sherlock, requiring some bed-rest, so...I'm going to hit you with some serious, sick!John stuff here, which shall lead into caregiver!Sherlock. Yeah. Sorry, I just wanted to do a different spin on things here.

* * *

Kandahar-we were taken to the military base there. The dead lieutenant was shipped straight to the morgue, and then home, while I was sent to the field hospital. My wound was treated and stitched up as best as possible, given some of our limited supplies. I survived the operation, and was laid down with bed rest being ordered, but before too long, I was stricken with sepsis, blood poisoning. For several weeks, it wasn't certain that I would survive. It didn't go so far as multiple organ dysfunction, but it came close. Fever ravaged my body and I started to hallucinate as my blood pressure plummeted and my heart rate increased. They treated me with antibiotics and IV fluid, and slowly, I began to recover, though not at a very fast rate. I was still weak when they shipped me back home to Britain.

I couldn't stay at the hospital for very long, though, and was discharged from service and from the hospital. Harry couldn't take me in, she wasn't in that great of a state for me to lodge with her, and my parents were long since gone. Eventually, I wound up alone in London, staying at a bedsit. About a month later, I met Sherlock Holmes on one of the worst nights of my life. The fever had returned, though I was not wholly aware of it at the time. All I knew was that I had to get out of my room and into the night, even though I could barely walk and probably should have stayed in bed and rested. Yet if I had stayed in bed, I probably would have been struck with fever without anyone being there to help me, so maybe it was a good thing that I wandered out when I did.

I headed to a betting shop, which stayed open late and that I occasionally frequented, frittering away my army pension on pointless bets. My funds were running out, and I was starting to get desperate to either recoup my losses or wind up a vagrant on the street. I had taken to carrying my revolver with me, perhaps due to a state of paranoia brought on by the rapidly approaching fever. The hallucinations and fevered dreams certainly didn't help me. I staggered out of the betting shop when such a hallucination struck me, and turned instead to a nearby bar, hoping to find some comfort there. I had just gotten a drink and settled down, wondering if I should try my hand at flirting with someone or hiring a prostitute, when Sherlock Holmes first approached me.

"Hello." He said, sitting on a barstool next to me and studying me closely.

"Hello." I said back, not quite certain why he was here or what he was doing, sitting so close to me. It made me uncomfortable and nervous, but not so much as what he said next.

"You are a veteran from Afghanistan." He said. "Or Iraq."

"What?" I gasped, staring at him in shock. "How did you know that?"

"Deduction." He said. "You're armed, have a military bearing and haircut, a depressed, paranoid air about you, a psychosomatic limp, a shoulder injury and you're quite pale despite the tan of your face. Are you feeling quite all right?" Even the bartender was paying attention to me at this point, probably worried that I would go crazy and start shooting up his pub.

"I'm—I'm-" I started feeling queasy and staggered back from the bar, hyperventilating a little bit with the stress of the situation and my condition. And the stranger with the dark, curly hair and piercing eyes kept staring at me. "I've got to go," I said, heading for the bathroom to throw up, but the stranger followed me without any concern for himself, only for me.

"Definitely not feeling well." The stranger said, leaning over me as I heaved into the toilet several times and then shuddered, trying to regain my breath and composure. "You've only had one drink, yet you're not intoxicated from before. Signs of trembling, hyperventilation, your pulse has certainly increased, yet you're as pale as a ghost and flushed with fever. Not to mention vomiting. Possibly hallucinating as well, if I'm any judge of your condition. You're not thinking or acting rationally. You're ill or on drugs. Shall I get you a doctor?" He asked the last question as if he was discussing the weather.

"Leave me alone! I am a doctor!" I called back at him. I recognized what was going on, I had experienced it before, yet I didn't want to admit it. I was scared to death about what was happening to me, losing control in such a situation, and this damned, irritating stranger who was gorgeous and seemed to know everything about me wasn't helping matters any.

"Not a good sign. You're a doctor, yet you're in denial about your own symptoms. Obviously it's affecting your judgment." The stranger said, getting out his cell phone. "Definitely need to call emergency services at this rate." He dialed.

I reached back for my gun, ready to threaten him to leave me alone so that I could regain control of the situation, but it was gone. "If you're looking for your weapon, I have it." Sherlock added, shaking his head as he waited for an answer. "I'm disappointed in you, sir. Swiped it while you were throwing up. You're in no condition to handle such a dangerous weapon." He started speaking with the emergency service responder.

I groaned and muttered, "Who the hell are you?" I was ready to give up and fold in the towel at the moment, surrendering to his command and control of the situation. It felt so much easier then than fighting him anymore.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man said, before giving our address to the responder. "Help should be arriving soon." He added to me. "What's your name so that I can tell the responders and don't have to go rifling through your wallet?"

"Dr. John Watson." I muttered, annoyed with his cavalier attitude. "Captain."

"Captain? I'm impressed." Sherlock said.

"Very funny. Tell them I got blood poisoning in Afghanistan," I muttered, sinking down a bit, on the verge of losing consciousness. It was so hard to stay awake then when I wanted to sleep.

"Hold on there, John, may I call you John?" He asked, leaning down beside me. I slowly nodded and he said, "Stay awake with me. Tell me a little bit more about Afghanistan, John, and about your treatment there. The emergency responders want to know."

I started talking then, rambling on a bit about my treatment and experiences in Afghanistan and the army hospital, not really knowing why, except that it was important. Sherlock paid attention to me and even responded and asked me some questions, perhaps memorizing some of the facts as well, even when I veered off into some incoherent discussions of various topics. He managed to keep up with me and kept me conscious and responsive until help arrived. He even slapped and poked me once or twice if I started fading or nodding off.

"Knock it off." I muttered, trying to wave him off and turn over to sleep.

"I want to know more, John." Sherlock insisted, grabbing hold and shaking me before he hesitated, trying to come up with a topic of discussion to keep me alert. "Tell me about your parents, any family you might have."

I started telling him about that mess as the responders arrived and I was bundled off into the ambulance, but Sherlock managed to talk his way into getting into the ambulance with me. I think the police might have arrived then as well, if the bartender called them about the dangerous, armed man throwing up in his bathroom, but Sherlock staved them off and got them to escort us to the hospital, specifically St. Barts. I remarked that I had studied there in my final year at university, which intrigued Sherlock enough that he questioned me about it. I remained conscious all the way to the hospital with Sherlock at my side, speaking to me, but finally I lost that battle as the stretcher was wheeled off and the guardian angel was left behind. Without him, I wouldn't be here anymore. He saved my life as I saved his later.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had initially been intrigued by the armed, injured veteran with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp and wanted to find out more about his condition and behavior as he shadowed him on the street. The veteran's abrupt, startling reaction inside the betting shop, though, had unnerved the consulting detective, aware now that this could be a dangerous, life-threatening situation involving an unstable opponent, but he had not realized where the true threat lied and whose life was really in danger here until he approached the man inside the pub.

Sherlock could not see the man well from a distance in the dark outside, but inside the pub, under relatively dim lighting, but still brighter than before, and closing the distance between them, Sherlock was able to see and tell a lot more about the veteran than he had before, and what he saw of the man's condition wasn't exactly good. He was in a poor state. The veteran's reaction didn't exactly assure Sherlock, and he quickly followed him into the bathroom to find out more.

Under the bathroom's intensely bright, though pallid fluorescent lighting, Sherlock saw a lot more than he had before, and quickly assessed the situation as the man was throwing up. He disarmed his 'opponent', who wasn't a threat to Sherlock, but rather to himself, and called emergency services. A woman responded, he told her what was going on, and she said to stay on the line until the emergency workers arrived. About as useless as a tin can. John was fading fast, Sherlock was shocked at the rate of deterioration. He didn't want this fellow John to die right before his eyes.

It brought up bad memories of Redbeard, the last time Sherlock had personally encountered death and its effects up close and personal. Sherlock did his level best to keep John alert and focused, to stay with him, as consciousness was probably better than unconsciousness at this state. He mentally prepared himself for the possibility of performing CPR if John passed out and stopped breathing. Chest bumps were key, consistent, firm, rhythmic presses to stimulate pressure inside the body. Apply breath as needed, but mostly, pressure.

Such measures, however, weren't needed at this juncture as the ambulance and emergency attendants arrived, followed by police. John didn't need police interrogation at this time, he needed the ambulance! Sherlock stopped the officers from hounding him, John, and the attendants, and managed to leverage his way into the ambulance, maintaining a steady flow of conversation between himself and John all the time, only half of which Sherlock really attended to, but what he did hear, he paid attention to and memorized. Such concern was unorthodox for him and not his usual method of handling a given situation, but such was his concern for John and his wellbeing that he overlooked his conventional methods and behavior.

After John was rushed into accident and emergency, A&E, at St. Barts, Sherlock received the resultant paperwork, which was going to be a hassle for him to fill out on his own when he disliked paperwork of any kind and didn't know how to answer half the questions on there. There was little choice in the matter, he needed help and information from the most powerful source imaginable, his brother. He sighed and got out his mobile, knowing that he would regret this choice, but without it, he wouldn't be able to help John.

**I need the full medical profile on Dr. John Watson, former army captain in Afghanistan, ASAP. Bring to St. Barts A&E waiting room.—SH**

He soon received a reply: **Does this have anything to do with your emergency tonight?—MH**

**Yes. Now please hurry up, waiting room.—SH**

He really hated the fact that his brother could see almost everything that was going on in London at any given time, thanks to all of the CCTV cameras in the area, and could spy on Sherlock as well. It took out most of the joy and mystery out of every case he solved, knowing that his brother usually held some of the most important clues in place, even if Mycroft couldn't solve the mystery by himself.

The man just couldn't sift through all of the information and data by himself in a timely manner, not when he needed assistance. Mycroft was lazy that way, always expecting other people to do his footwork while he kept watch and dropped off some hints. He wasn't very much help to Sherlock at all. Plus, Sherlock couldn't keep any secrets from him for very long and Mycroft used that to his advantage. Mother always knew, thanks to big blabbermouth Mycroft.

Soon after he sent the text, he heard a familiar voice shout, "Sherlock! What's going on here?"

Sherlock grimaced and turned around to face Lestrade, accompanied by Sally Donovan. "Lestrade, I don't have the patience for this right now." He insisted.

"We heard that you were at the scene of an armed disturbance tonight and got into the ambulance with the suspect, repelling police assistance." Donovan added. "What gives?"

"The situation was under control, I handled it." Sherlock fumed. "I disarmed him. The man wasn't a threat to anyone but himself."

"You should have at least told us what was going on there." Lestrade said. "You should have stayed behind at the scene with the police officers and answered any and all questions."

"The man was ill. He needed my assistance and medical attention. Neither one of us needed bloody police brutality and interrogation." Sherlock added. "I had to accompany him. He needed me."

"You?" Donovan asked, incredulous as she gaped at him, and then laughed. "Bloody Sherlock Holmes, you needed to accompany him? What sort of a man is he that you are so concerned about him? You don't give a rat's ass about anybody."

"I don't know. I've never met him before tonight, but he needed my help and I was there!" Sherlock cried. "I was the only one there for him when he needed me and I wasn't bloody well going to let him die, lying on the bathroom floor of some east London pub, vomiting his guts out! No man should have to die that way, not if I have anything to say about it. And his name is Dr. John Watson, a veteran army captain who recently returned from Afghanistan after having been shot at and gotten blood poisoning! Show some respect!"

Donovan gaped openly at Sherlock now, shocked by his behavior and reaction, while Lestrade seemed more thoughtful and considerate as he appraised the consulting detective's behavior. "All right then, Sherlock." Lestrade said. "I suppose we can leave off on questioning you and Dr. John Watson as to the events of tonight when he's feeling better, but be aware that neither one of you are completely off the hook yet. We'll keep an eye on you and Dr. John Watson until further notice, got that?" Lestrade asked.

"Got it, detective inspector." Sherlock said, relaxing slightly.

"Good evening, Sherlock, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan." Another familiar voice said and Sherlock winced as he and the others turned around and faced his brother Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella like a cane with his assistant Anthea standing behind him. "I came here to see my brother, offer my support, and deliver a file Sherlock requested. Is everything all right here? I heard some shouting." He smiled in particular at Sherlock with these words, and Sherlock realized his brother had overheard his outburst.

"Everything is fine here, Mycroft—Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said, gulping as he nodded. "Sergeant Donovan and I are just leaving. Come on, Sally." He muttered as he and Donovan almost snuck out of the room with Mycroft watching them go.

"I really must send him some flowers, something to brighten up that drab, musty office of his," Mycroft commented to himself before turning back to his brother.

"Can you be any more clichéd?" Sherlock grumbled to himself.

"Is everything all right, Sherlock? Mother would be upset with me if I let anything happen to you." Mycroft added.

"Everything is fine, or at least as fine as they can be, given how out of control, terrible, and unexpected they are." Sherlock groaned and sunk down into one of the uncomfortable, itchy waiting room chairs, resting his head on his hands as Mycroft came and sat down beside him, or as close as he was willing to get. Anthea stood off to the side, not disturbing them. "I don't really know what I should be doing here or what is going on." Sherlock admitted. "I don't know why I'm here. I barely even know the man, and yet I feel connected and concerned about him. I wanted to help save him, keep him alive. I didn't want him to die on me."

"Mother always said you were the sensitive one." Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Sentimentality will get you in the end, you know."

"I'm not being sentimental, I'm being rational as well." Sherlock grumbled. "I'm helping him because that is the best thing to do."

"Sherlock, you cannot prevent, deter, or control death, much as you wish to." Mycroft said. "No matter how much you wish to save others and solve all problems, you know there is no final solution. Everyone dies, some sooner rather than later."

"Not Dr. John Watson." Sherlock growled.

"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "You might be used to death, death is easy when there is nothing left, but the dying is the hardest part. To experience that pain and anguish before losing a life. You've only experienced that once, haven't you? With Redbeard?"

"It's not the same." Sherlock said, lowering his head. "John will live. I'll see to it if I have to."

* * *

Sorry about all this. Hey, but I did include some Mystrade-I've been influenced by fanfic. See you later.


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